Tempus Fugit
by Kristen999
Summary: Half and hour. Thirty minutes. 1800 seconds. No matter how you count it. It's not enough time when you're watching your friend die. Warrick and Nick friendship. Major HC.


Tittle: "Tempus Fugit" (1/1)

Author: Kristen999

Rating: T For language and intense situations.

Disclaimer: Not mine, just using for them for fun and torture.

Summary: Half and hour. Thirty minutes. 1800 seconds. No matter how you count it. It's not enough time when you're watching your friend die.

Notes: Warrick and Nick friendship. Major H/C. This is a gift!fic written for my good buddy Everybetty. Prompts at the end.

Major thanks to Kimonkey7 for her wonderful beta.

* * *

Twenty-two minutes. The time it takes to TiVo through some fucking sitcom where things get set up, broken, and solved, all to a freaking laugh track. The time it takes for him to go to the bank, wait in line, chat with the teller and pick up on some coffee - even with a double shot of espresso, extra whip. That super expensive washer he bought his Grams can do a load of wash in under twenty-two minutes. Almost every time he goes to that new Italian place on Fourth Street he waits that long before getting a seat.

Warrick's eyes dart to his watch. Twenty-one minutes.

"Pull over." Nick's voice is a groan lost in thick vowels.

He doesn't want to waste more time, not another tick on the clock, but his partner is already opening the door, ignoring the very possibility he could go tumbling out and become minced meat along the road. Warrick's foot slams on the brake and the truck pulls to the curb in a nasty swerve, one of the tires bumping along concrete.

"We don't have time for this," he says to Nick's heaving back. The sound of stomach contents hitting pavement makes Warrick's own stomach churn in sympathy.

The car door swings open further, Nick's body dangerously close to spilling out onto the ground. His arms tremble with effort as he gets back into his seat, right one fumbling with the handle. He lacks the strength to even pull closed the door.

Warrick climbs over his partner to slam it shut and gets an eyeful of Nick's waxen face; eyes sunken in so deeply he looks ghoulish. Warrick wastes a precious moment to wipe back dark hair plastered to his buddy's forehead, skin there clammy and reminiscent of refrigerated meat. Nick's shirt, once white, is stained grayish from sweat along the collar and chest making Warrick hyper-aware of the fleeting time. "Just puke on the floorboard, ain't stoppin' again," he growls.

"Not payin' for the cleaning bill," Nick slurs.

"No, 'cuz you're renting a Steam-Vac and doing it yourself," Warrick retaliates, flooring the accelerator.

"If ya stop lurchin' the car all over the road, maybe I wouldn't feel like I'm on some carnival ride," Nick grunts out, eyes squinched shut.

The wheel is slick beneath Warrick's sweaty hands as he jerks it back and fourth, tossing them around at break-neck speed. He borrows a few moves from of one of the racing games they play in the break room. No red and blue in his rear view, but he's sure that's not far off. Warrick tries to move the cars off the road with his mind; urges them to get the hell out of the way, and offers more than one prayer no one was in the crosswalk he'd just blown through.

Nick braces both hands on the dashboard, puffing air in and out like a toy choo-choo train. He alternates between coughing, spitting and panting.

Warrick tries not to listen to the shortness of breath, transplants himself to a time when they'd trained for the CSI relay race; how they'd both huffed and puffed after their first all-out mile run. But there's some other noise, a troubling addition to Nick's respiratory distress. "Nick, talk to me."

Warrick whips his head back and forth between the asphalt he doesn't want to become part of and his partner who's currently doing a fair impersonation of a cat trying to gulp down something too big for its mouth. Dividing his attention between his buddy and the road is proving challenging, and wrapping the truck around a telephone pole won't get Nick to the ER any sooner. "Nick."

"C—can't…s-swallow," and the odd gasping is worse than Nick's bouts of retching.

"Just calm down. All you need to worry about is breathing, got it?"

"Easy…fer…you…to say." Nick spits on floorboard between attempts to get his throat to co-operate.

Nick's inability to control an automatic function like swallowing means worse things can't be far off. Warrick knows the hospital is only a few minutes away, suddenly hears the distant sounds of sirens, and shakes his head. Three solid minutes of being a menace on the road before help shows up.

"Damn it!" Nick curses.

Warrick doesn't need to look; he hears Nick vomit for the third time, dry heaving between his knees, retches replacing the failed attempts to swallow. But an empty stomach doesn't alleviate the body's violent urge to rid itself of something that doesn't belong there; Nick hacks bile and other foul smelling things. Warrick rolls down the windows to help get rid of the odor and cold night air fills his lungs.

Fifteen minutes. He's never felt such helplessness before.

A blue sign pointing to the emergency room exit gives him a tiny glimmer of hope. The positive break tilts the cosmic balance to one side; it has to right itself.

Nick is wheezing, one hand fisted, digging into his chest.

"One breath at a time, man. Just one at a time."

Nick's eyes dart around in a panic, seeking exits, and now Warrick is scared shitless. He thumbs the automatic locks because the frantic, animal-like desperations has him more edgy than the damn irregular breathing. "Take it easy," he orders, barreling down a side street. For Pete's sake can they make the hospital any harder to get to?

"My chest," Nick gasps, face flushing red.

"I'm sure it just feels tight," Warrick tries to soothe, unwilling to completely look away.

Nick groans, fidgeting, squirming, unable to tolerate whatever is happening to him now. "Heart feels like its gonna explode," he grinds out, his breath on track to hyperventilation. Just like running way too long on a treadmill.

"Ride it out, just ride it out." Warrick feels so damn idiotic delivering such platitudes, but he has nothing. Nada to give to his best friend, just all those damn cop cars behind him and the closing distance on the care so desperately needed. He looks at the second hand rotating once more. Twelve minutes.

Warrick's teeth grit when he hears the wail of pain escape Nick's lips; he's trying to curl up in a ball in the seat. It's worth the risk of running off the road to reach out and pat his shoulder, give his friend some type of physical contact. "We're almost there, hold on man."

Nick begins to rock back and forth, reduced to basic, rudimentary means of coping.

Warrick can't help thinking of an animal willing to gnaw off its own leg to rid itself of further suffering. "Its, okay, man," Warrick whispers over and over again, but it's for his own comfort; Nick isn't able to hear him now. He nearly jumps out of his own skin when he feels a hand gripping his knee.

"Warrick." The voice is raw, weak, and lost.

By sheer force of will he controls the wheel with one hand, covers the desperate one clutching his leg. "Right here, partner."

"Tell…tell my folks--"

Warrick barrels into the hospital's maze-like parking lot. "Shut the fuck up. We're here and you're gonna make it!" His eyes mist over and he can't control the slow trail of tears down his cheeks.

Nick's hand leaves Warrick's knee as he wedges himself against the passenger's side door. "My…my chest's...it...hurts... I…I…don't wanna die," Nick whispers.

Warrick almost looses it right then and there. No, no, no. It's not too late. He pulls up to the entrance of the ER, the wailing of several cop cars behind him. He's sure they've run his plates, his cell phone hasn't stopped buzzing, but he's out of the truck, headless of what it looks like to the LVPD.

Warrick yells at them, screams for them to get him some help, grab a doctor, steal a gurney, whatever it takes. Because he's unlocking the passenger door and catching Nick's limp body as it falls from the truck.

* * *

They don't have a warrant to execute, it's supposed to be a simple sweep of the premises. _Well, no, not really_, Nick thinks, hand resting on his gun as his eyes flick to the exit, calculating how far away outside the young pup recruits are sniffing around; over a hill and too far for comfort. None here. Not inside Westner's secret little alcove. The door had been opened just enough for a quick sneak peek inside a house that wasn't even on the map.

Warrick hasn't pulled his weapon yet, and why would he? Isn't like they have just cause, except for the man in the white coat standing quietly three feet away, an amused expression on his face to hide the brief moment of surprise when they'd stumbled into this hidden little lair. They'd been looking for a second body, not their suspect.

Bruce Westner's hands slip inside the pockets of his coat, no sign of tension anywhere, as he leans against a back counter. "You boys don't belong here."

Nick looks at his partner, sees his eyes narrow at '_boys'_. Dr. Westner had used that term regularly during their previous interviews, never once giving the courtesy of eye contact. When it was forced, the good doctor merely peered down his nose through his expensive wire-rimmed glasses.

"We could say the same about you, _sir_." Nick adds stepping closer, stealing looks at all the evidence in plain view on the table in front of him.

Westner's feet shuffle, the first sign of nervousness Nick has ever seen from the guy. The bio-tech engineer wipes a hand over his bushy beard and then the hand drifts into his thinning hair, pulling at the strands.

Bingo.

Warrick catches the suspect's tics and nods lightly to his partner. It's a silent communication; tread with caution, but push the envelope just a little more.

There's a litany of chemical and mathematical equations scattered over countless notepads, but what catches Nick's attention are all the documents with the header Liberty Biotech. His eyes darken as they often do when he's caught someone dead-bang. When he drags his gaze back up to the scientist, Nick's revealed his own tell. It's a cat and mouse game now, and the legal implications make it a very slippery slope.

"Interesting home work, Bruce." Nick uses the man's first name casually and the engineer bristles. It's too late to turn back, yet they have nothing on which to arrest this guy.

Nick scrutinizes the expensive, under-lit lab table; a beacon illuminating a few suspicious computer discs. People have killed over industrial espionage before and odds are falling in their favor that the homicides linked to their case just got more motive. Dr. Westner inches closer to the table, protectively hovering near the possibly stolen property, shadow obscuring and intimidating.

Warrick strolls over, cool as a cucumber, hand on the butt of his gun. The tension is bubbling just on the surface and Nick brushes his fingertips over his Glock in response. Warrick is never high strung like this.

"This is bigger than both of you. Just walk away, boys, go play with your chem sets or dust for prints to your heart's delight." There's a cold confidence; smug tone, heartless and calculating. Bruce Westner, even in khaki pants and nerdy, striped suspenders, seems very much in control. It's how he walks, slow and methodical, and it's that piercing gaze that says he holds all the cards though Nick and Warrick have the brawn.

Nick feels his back break out in a cold sweat.

"Why don't you come with us and we'll talk about your nifty doomsday bunker downtown," Warrick's voice rumbles.

"I don't think so," Westner snipes back.

Nick looks at Warrick. There are no roadmaps in this situation; lines -very murky lines - have been crossed.

"If you boys had a warrant, I'd be reading it now." Blue eyes glisten. "Perhaps you should go try to fetch one."

Westner wants them to leave and that's not going to happen. Somewhere in the mix of vials, flasks, computers, and other _Mr. Wizard_ items is a clue; a smoking gun. If they frisk the good doctor for weapons, Nick can play guard while Warrick calls in some backup. A couple uniforms to sit outside the house until they can get a warrant. Any other legal miscalculations can be dealt with later.

Warrick can read his mind and shakes his head, ignoring Nick's glare. No time. Can't let this guy hide whatever he's trying to conceal from them.

"You two come alone?"

Neither criminalists like the tone of the question and their suspects grins, eyes going down to the radios they have not used to inform anyone of their location. Nick's internal alarms go off when Westner's hands shift inside his pockets.

"Don't move," Warrick orders.

Nick readies for action, right hand tense over his service weapon. He's not in the mood for threats. "Pull your hands out of your pockets slowly," he orders, and then waits.

The scientist, smiling broadly, withdraws his latex-gloved hands, fingers of his left hand twined around a small vial.

Warrick draws and aims his Glock at the suspect. "What is that?" he demands.

Nick is close enough to subdue the suspect, but slowly unholsters his gun instead. Westner has been all about the bluff since the beginning of the case.

"I was just putting this in a safe place before you boys barged in here. I wouldn't want it to accidentally fall if things get rough. I know you boys get your jollies acting like big bad cops every once in a while. Nerds with guns syndrome," smirks the doctor.

"Put it down," Nick growls, impatient with all the taunting.

"Sure thing."

It was too many years of catching fly balls, tackling any moving body on the football field; just habit. Nick is all about safety so his right hand stays cautiously at his side on his gun. It's his left hand that comes up. It's instinct to catch the tube. And even though he'd never be described as clumsy, he's a rightie. He overcompensates by half an inch and the small glass vial strikes the steel band of his watch.

His skin registers wetness. A thick fluid, like baby oil, sprays across his wrist and palm. He keeps his head above the fear of chemical burns and stops his fingers from closing over the small shards of glass mingled in the liquid. He's moving like fire to the nearest sink, doesn't even register his partner rushing past him.

Warrick is a blur aimed straight at Westner. He pushes him violently against the table, roughly patting him down, yelling and demanding things Nick's barely processing.

"What was in that, huh?"

There's not an answer to his question.

"You okay, Nick?"

Is he? Nick's not sure, but his skin's not sizzling off and his head swims with relief. "It's…It's not acid." His voice quivers, mind racing at all the possibilities of what it could be. Nothing stings, his rough hand is free of cuts. Most dangerous drugs need a syringe or an open wound to enter the body. Or need to be swallowed, the scientific part of his mind assures. "I think I'm fine."

His voice still shakes and the water is getting very hot, steam rising from the stainless steel. He's scrubbed a layer off and checks and double checks again for burns or any sign of irritation. Nothing but clean, raw pink skin. His heart calms down, and now there's just anger. It rises to meet Warrick, who's still screaming at the doctor and his smug expression.

Nick charges, boots clomping on the floor until he's at his partner's side, grabbing a fist full of lab jacket. Warrick backs off a bit as Nick jerks the scientist into his personal space, their noses nearly touching. "You think that was funny?" he seethes.

Westner laughs quietly. "In fact, I do. Wasn't sure if I could count on a reflex, but you gave it up in spades. Another of my simple theories proven correct."

Played like some fucking lab rat. Nick shares an anger-laced glare with Warrick. Both men are tense and pissed.

"You still haven't told us what that was." Warrick growls.

"No, I haven't. But," and Westner checks his watch, "I will say, you have exactly thirty minutes to find out."

Nick releases the fistful of lab jacket and subconsciously flexes is still-damp left hand, gut twisting at Westner's statement. "What happens in thirty minutes?"

Blue eyes look at him fondly, which makes his skin crawl.

"Why, that's when you die, young man."

It's Warrick's turn to manhandle the suspect, even though it means pushing Nick aside. "What did you do?" he demands, allowing his fear and anger some release.

"It's a very fast acting poison, Mr. Brown. One of my own design. I must say, to my credit, it's quite efficient."

"It only made contact with my skin for a few seconds and, last I checked, nothin' that reactive is water soluble," Nick retorts.

"Didn't say it was," Westner coos, still grinning.

"We're not fools. We've worked dozens of poisoning cases. Your science is fucked," says Warrick, but the conviction doesn't play in his eyes like it does in his voice.

"It's called trans-dermal delivery and its too complicated for you _boys_. It's fats soluble and easily diffused into the vessels under his skin. Under normal circumstances it would take hours of exposure, but not with my modifications." The corners of Westner's mouth pull up and a ridiculously sinister laugh spills out. "You forget the research for which I earned my doctorate."

Nick sways a little and his head pounds with the echoes of the cackle.

"I'll call 911," Warrick reassures Nick.

"Too long. Not enough time. Hospital is fifteen to twenty minutes away, so he'll be dead before he gets there. No, I think his only chance is if you leave. Now."

"You're bluffing," Warrick's spittle lands on the doctor's chin.

Westner slowly flicks it off the hairs of his beard. "I'm not. It's up to you. Wait, call for back up, call for an ambulance too, and he dies waiting on it or on the one-way ticket there." Westner's latex-gloved hands smooth the fisted wrinkles from his lapels. "Get in your car and run to the ER before its too late."

Nick's heart thuds and rattles in his chest, banging against his sternum, and the room spins slightly. His salivary glands kick out buckets of saliva and he has to swallow several times, tongue heavy and slow. He rubs at the gritty sensation in his eyes and everything suddenly seems…weird.

"You're lying." Warrick's voice is deep, fearful.

"Am I?" Westner takes a moment to consult his watch. He 'tsk's and clucks; like expiring seconds on a clock. "Twenty eight minutes; more time lost arguing."

Warrick steps back, gun aimed point blank at their suspect, uncertainty and rage curling his finger around the trigger.

Westner looks past Warrick to Nick. "You feeling all right, son? A little light headed, perhaps? Don't worry, there's a lot more to follow. Stick around and I'll make sure all your symptoms make it into my notes." His eyes flick back to the taller CSI. "My real employer will make sure I have plenty of time to slip out of the country before there's ever a trial."

Nick's stomach drops, the sensation like riding an out of control elevator, and he clutches his belly as pain rips through his abdomen.

"Sucker acts really fast," Westner says in awe, voice filled with sickening pride.

"Sonuvabitch." Warrick grabs his partner's shoulder. "Nick?"

The sensation's like he's just eaten too many hot dogs and gone on the loop-de-loop. Nick's lips go slightly numb and he leans towards his partner. "I don't feel so good."

The choice is made there and then. Warrick tugs on Nick's arm, pulling him out of the room, eyes never off the suspect who, casually glancing at his watch, mouths '_Twenty five minutes.'_

Nick won't groan in font of the asshole, won't take Warrick's aid until he's all the way out the door. He stumbles over the gravel, sinks to his knees and heaves near a small bush. His belly's filled with razorblades, slicing him up on the inside; white hot pain shooting from his gut until his face flushes warm. Bringing up the hot liquid contents of his stomach drags daggers up his esophagus and what he can't force out, can't spit from his mouth, becomes acid backwash in his empty stomach.

Hitching with dry heaves, Nick still waves off his partner's hand on his shoulder. He forces open now-bloodshot eyes and there's a weird, yellow aura to the world. The sickly color makes him moan and his stomach churns again.

"Nick, man," Warrick pleads, pulling his partner up and toward the truck.

Nick doesn't refuse his help this time, roughly clutching at the back of Warrick's shirt as the two make their way to the vehicle, arms slung across each other's shoulders. Nick's stomach jumps again, like a little fire's gone off, and he screeches to a halt, cheeks puffing with air.

"Might want to hurry," Warrick tries to joke, but neither CSI is laughing as they load into the truck and speed for the hospital they both wish was closer.

* * *

Warrick saves Nick from face planting on the curb, catches him under both armpits and wrangles him like an unruly drunk. Nick's legs shake then fold under his own weight. "Help me out a little," he mutters to an unresponsive Nick. He cranes his neck to bark at a few of LVPD's late arriving finest. "Lend me a hand!"

Wilkes, or Wilson - he can't remember- goes from wired post defensive mode to getting his act together. The uni grabs Nick's other side and his partner ushers them through the automatic doors.

On their radios, Warrick can hear voices squawking out the status of the pursuit, but he doesn't pay it any attention.

Nick's still in the game; his feet try for purchase but fail miserably and his boots drag along the floor instead. His head dips to one side and he pants like a dog trapped in an over-heated car. Warrick keeps an arm around Nick's waist, can feel the sweat through the fabric of his shirt.

A Puerto Rican woman no taller than one of Tina's nieces orders a few other scrubs-clad personnel to help and Nick is deposited on a gurney. He's wide-eyed – too much so - fussing and fighting on the narrow bed, too busy groaning to answer the army of questions from his caregivers.

A blonde nurse, thick hair pulled back into a ponytail, is talking quietly, soothingly to Nick, but it's the tiny physician that's snapping off questions to Warrick with a heavy accent.

"Can you tell me what's wrong with him? What was he doing?"

Warrick stares at her blue eyes, flashing like diamond fire. The doctor may look like she needs a stool to work, but she's got a red hot intensity he knows Nick's better off having on his side. "He was poisoned, I don't know by what."

He wastes time, Nick's time, telling her everything that bastard Westner said. Warrick believes every word from the bio-tech engineer; the guy created some unknown toxin and they better hurry and stop asking him so many questions. He doesn't have answers. He needs them to find answers. He knows he sounds crazy – the ramblings of a paranoid madman – but something flares in the doctor's eyes and she gives Warrick a curt nod, communicating acceptance and satisfaction.

"Vitals," the spitfire physician demands, unwrapping a stethoscope to listen to Nick's bare chest.

He's been stripped of his shirt, an IV inserted in one wrist, blood pressure cuff inflating, manned by a very plump black man who could stand to lose a few pounds.

"Pulse tachy at 170."

The number sounds way too high.

"BP is 160 over 110 and rising."

No wonder Nick felt like his chest was crushing him. Warrick wants to step forward, be as close to Nick as possible, but too many people swarm like bees around the gurney.

The physician demands more info from her resident than the prattling about shortness of breath; observation of the century. She shines a pen light in Nick's eyes and he slaps it away, knocking it to the floor where it skitters across the tile into another ER bay.

An orderly with two beefy hands tries to hold down Nick's shoulders, but all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and that doesn't help matters. Nick may be half the orderly's size but he's strong, lean muscle, and all the adrenaline racing through his veins makes him hard to hold still. Nick's been agitated and hostile since his back landed on the bed. They can't give anything to calm him down; won't risk hurting him while the toxin's still unknown.

When a nurse attempts to strap down one of Nick's wrists, Warrick explodes. "Don't do that!"

"Sir."

And then it's a barrage of '_sir's_ and '_you need to leave's,_ but he's not doing that. Not going to budge, not going to not have his buddy's back.

Instead of calling security the doctor is back in his face. He takes a brief moment to place a name to the tiny red hot, Espinoza, before she barks like he's one of her interns.

"Talk to him, then. Reassure him."

Warrick checks his watch. Eight minutes to go and they still don't know what the hell's going on. He still doesn't know how to save him. Eight damn minutes; he can get a night's full of news in that amount of time, listen to the extended mix of 2-Pac's "California Love".

Warrick side-steps carts full of instruments, the IV, a staff member (uncoiling more tubing to go somewhere he doesn't want to think about) to lay a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Hey bro, why don't you let these guys help you out."

Someone's prepped and ready with scissors to cut away his jeans. A cute redhead is peeling back adhesive from yet another contact pad to lay on yet another patch of skin. Nick's chest is covered by electrodes and wires and it makes Warrick bite down on his lip. "You gotta calm down, man."

He kneels next to Nick's gurney, trying to provide distraction as his eyes flicker to another syringe filling with dark red blood. He wonders mutely how much of it is tainted by Westner's malevolent chemical. Nick is absolutely ashen. Dark patches have dug trenches under his tightly squeezed-shut eyes. Warrick can hear the second hand of his watch sweeping away another 360 degrees.

Nick covers his glassy eyes like the sun's blazing down on him. His struggles weaken, though he still tries to curl in on himself despite the hands holding him, despite being tethered.

"It's gonna be okay."

Warrick works Nick's hand out of a fist, grasps his partners fingers in his own. He feels pressure; cold sausage fingers clutch so hard Warrick's bones hurt: metacarpals vibrating and protesting at the grip.

"Nick, it's gonna be okay." Say it. Think it. Believe it. Even if the time left is the same required for zapping a fucking TV dinner. Nick's grip slides over to wrap around his wrist, thumb digging into the pulse point and he realizes Nick's using it to try to ground himself. _Atta boy, Nicky._

The arm slung over his face lowers slowly. Pupils, like tiny pinpricks, swim at the center of brown irises, shifting and horrified. "You're…lookin' green." Nick's voice is vapor thin, swallowed by the oxygen mask obscuring the words.

Warrick squints at the unusual remark.

The doc is sharp as a hawk, chewing out residents about getting her results, monitoring all those annoying beeps that just seem to be gaining speed. She hovers over Nick. "What did you say, sugar?" It's all silky smooth bedside manner, and she coaxes and pats sweaty hair until Nick tells her again that everything looks green.

It must mean something because she pops like a cap, snapping at the pretty nurse monitoring all the wavy lines and flashing buttons on the machines around Nick. It goes from shot-in-the-dark lab tests to very specific sounding ones; potassium, magnesium and creatine levels. Time takes another jump forward.

Nick's hand jerks away from Warrick's, arm twitching with little spasms that jump from muscle to muscle. His vacant eyes roll back in his sockets. When the screaming starts it freezes Warrick until fat nurse guy shoves him aside, trying desperately to keep Nick still.

Three minutes.

Commercial breaks on T.V. last longer sometimes.

Abnormal muscular contractions wrack and contort his friend's body. From severe, sudden fits, to the briefest periods of complete relaxation. The alternating pattern starts off small and builds and builds until Nick is lost in the throes of the spasms; snapping joints and jerking limbs that cause the narrow bed to shake.

Warrick's caught completely off guard by the paroxysm, left mute by what he's witnessing. His ears catch only snippets of the chaos surrounding his partner. Names of medications, frantic calls for support, all a blur, until it's broken by the doctor's voice.

"Arrhythmia is getting worse!"

Warrick's brain burns hot, trying to follow the jargon and the practiced disorder. The EKG tech hollers something about T-waves and Warrick's eyes fly to the printout pouring from one of the machines. The rhythm of the lines is insane; needle arms scratching out large, furious patterns. He pictures bright blue pulses of electrical actively pumping Nick's heart toward overload, sparks too turbulent and disorganized, the muscle inflating and deflating at an alarming speed. Nick's shaking on the outside but must be exploding on the inside. The medical team injects meds into this bloodstream, the convulsions calming then raging back to life.

"Pulse is 200!"

"BP is 190 over 140."

Warrick watches while the numbers on the heart monitor climb higher and higher, alarms shrieking as a crash cart is wheeled in and everyone holds their collective breath. Nick's body slackens then lays motionless.

"Complete ventricular fibrillation!"

He hears it and the earth stands still. Warrick can't move but he's screaming. He's cursing out his best friend. "Fuck you, Nick! Fuck you, don't ya quit on me."  
The moisture form earlier is back, wetness trailing from the edges of his eyes, the room blurring. He hears the whine of the machine warming up, watches in horror as two paddles are applied to the top and side of Nick's chest. His body arches from God knows how many joules of electricity.

"Clear."

More clears, more zaps, and the number on that machine keeps getting higher as well.

100

150

200

And all Warrick can think is that time is up; the sixty second countdown to this tragedy began just before the seizures.

"You get that damn diazoxide on board," the physician yells, her staff assuring her it was injected a few minutes ago.

She orders more magnesium.

"What about calcium?" someone asks.

"No!"

There's a murmur of disagreement, more drugs, the shock paddles are applied again.  
He can't watch his best friend's body lurch off the gurney like that again. Can't listen to the drone of the flat line and the bitter stillness in the air. Warrick closes his eyes and his throat doesn't know how to work, he can't hold down the choked sound that escapes. Just as he feels the room begin to spin, taking his balance with it, he hears a small beep. He didn't know he'd been holding his breath until air rushes back into his starving lungs. He opens his eyes to nurses and doctors a swarming mass of energy around Nick's bed.

There's a pulse, a faint one.

He should never have given up on his best friend.

* * *

Someone must have dropped several bowling balls on his chest. From a very high position above. That, or he's wrapped his truck around a great big oak tree and his body's been fused with the dashboard.

It's more than that, though. More than pressure and heaviness. Maybe he's under water; the weight of the whole Pacific bearing down on him. But that doesn't make sense. He's never been scuba diving before.

As the unyielding force increases, so do other things; a thumping in his ears, loud and rapid and, with the pounding, a sort of familiar panic. There's pain, plenty of that, but something…parts of him…are not working right. Tiny prickles; needles, thousands of them, chisel at all of his nerve endings.

Then the thumping's louder, the pins sharper, the heaviness on his body stronger.  
Crushing, crushing, crushing.

Nick realizes that the drum beat in his head is his struggling heart. He can feel the muscle rage against his sternum, imagines all four valves pumping at once; out of rhythm, out of sync.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

Too fast, too hard, and he can feel the blood circulating through his veins. Traveling, burning, with all circuits leading back to his over-taxed heart. It's got no where else to go. He feels the rushing fire; flowing, flooding, exploding. The air he can pull in is too thin. This is what Doc Robbins meant about a heart attack; a sack full of worms, pushing their way out.

Nick means to yells but it doesn't work. The weight bears down more and there's nothing left to do but suffocate.

He takes one final gasp and his eyelids flutter open. Bright white light floods in like two knives, the points of the blades digging into his sockets, deep into his brain. He throws his hand up to protect against the assault.

"Mr. Stokes?"

Is he back home in Dallas? A heavy Spanish accent asks him to open his eyes, doesn't seem to understand how painful a request that is.

"Please, Mr. Stokes."

Her voice is kind and it distracts him from the drumming. He releases a breath, but the air he's pulling in to fill his lungs causes all the needles to prick him again. Still, he keeps trying.

"Can you open your eyes for me, Mr. Stokes?"

Nick attempts it but the stark whiteness assails and burns and he shakes his head. "Hurts."

"What does, Mr. Stokes?"

"The light," he cries hoarsely as the sensation in his chest spreads to the rest of his body, snaking down his limbs and coiling into his stomach. His belly cramps up and he groans pathetically. There's more conversation, most of which sounds garbled and far away, and then he makes out the Spanish accent again; sugary voice telling him the light is gone.

Weary, still fighting for every rise and fall of his chest, Nick opens one eye. There's no pain and he dares to open the other. His vision swims and blurs and he sees Maria, his parent's old house keeper, peering down at him.

No. Scratch that. It's not Maria, but she's middle aged. Much softer cheeks, though her eyes are just as intense.

"That better?"

"Yes." And that one syllable takes so much effort.

"And are things still looking a little loco to you?"

It's a peculiar question, and Nick doesn't feel much like focusing. His ears are still filled with the rapid, sprinting thunder of his heart. He moves to rub his chest, massage away the achy, strained sensation.

"Careful," the female voice warns.

And he feels the wires, the sticky pads all over his chest. His eyes open wider and tries to sit up, but it's a very bad idea because spikes drive into his chest like medieval torture. He doesn't even notice the beeping noise, doesn't realize it's him that's making the alarm flood frantically through the room. He feels every desperate beat of his heart through his palm.

He takes in the machines, the people rushing around in blue scrubs, realizes where he is but doesn't know why. He's receiving oxygen, two little tubes feeding him through his nostrils. There are IVs, wires… All of a sudden, it's a little too overwhelming.

"What's wrong with me?" His voice is tiny. Doesn't sound like him at all.

"I'm trying to find out."

The beeping continues and the doctor pats his hand. "There's someone very anxious to see you."

He can hear the doctor speak to someone; whispered things, calming words. Warrick's face is over his and he can't help but feel some relief at the familiar presence.

"Rick," he breathes, and hates the panicky shake and timbre of his voice.

Warrick grips his right hand. "You're going to be fine."

There are lines etched in Warrick's forehead that aren't normally there.

He's not buying it. His head may be filled with static and that damn pounding, but he remembers why he's here and his body stiffens. "They fix it?"

Warrick exchanges a quick look with the doctor, but Nick knows the answer before either of them speaks.

"We're waiting on some tests, but it'd help if you tell me how you're feeling," says Dr. Espinoza, sidling up to the gurney opposite Warrick. "We've lowered your blood pressure and pulse, but we're still concerned about your arrhythmia."

Nick presses down against the beating in his chest. Warrick squeezes his shoulder but it doesn't lessen the fear, the fear squeezing his heart.

"You're experiencing some photophobia. Your eyes are sensitive to light. And earlier you said everything was all greenish, is that still the case?"

Nick knows this is important, can sense it, and he squints. Everything is dark and nothing looks right, hasn't since he opened his eyes, like there're little rings of color bleeding into the environment. "There's a…yellowish tint to everything."

She scribbles in his chart and Warrick looks at him with concern.

"Are you still nauseous?"

He nods.

"Your belly pain, is it sharp or dull?"

"Sharp." He gulps and stutters when his throat doesn't do what it's supposed to do. "Still hard to swallow."

"Still?"

"You don't know what he gave me, do you?"

Warrick glares at the physician and then turns his face back to Nick with a guilty expression. "Give 'em time."

"The mode of delivery was very unusual. To poison somehow by absorption through the skin is very rare. Makes it tricky. We're more concerned right now with keeping you stable."

It hurts to move. Every muscle feels wrung out and beaten into submission. He's never felt this sore, never tried so hard to calm down.

"Your tests show very low potassium and calcium levels along with your tachycardia."

"And that means?" Warrick snaps, his anger a betrayal of nerves.

"We've ruled out arsenic, cyanide, hemlock, all the heavy metal groups."

The razorblades rip into his abdomen and he rolls to his side. The move pulls at all the lines and tubes, there's pinching and pulling in his groin, his veins. The sticky electrodes tug at his chest.

Dr. Espinoza's warm hand squeezes his bicep. "We shouldn't be worrying you anymore."  
It doesn't matter that he's the experiment; Nick is a scientist. "What kind of poison would still be in my system?"

"Mr. Stokes, let's not--"

"Most OD's are treated with charcoal to make ya throw up," his voice is thick.  
"You did plenty of that all ready," Warrick says.

Nick allows a tiny smile, "Yeah, I owe ya a cleaning bill." He pulls up his knees to squeeze himself smaller. "So, its out of my stomach."

"Whatever it is has all ready entered your tissue and spread to your central nervous system."

"Ricin?" he asks, frightened, knowing exactly what that can do first hand.

"No, despite your abdominal pain and other, similar symptoms. Ricin slows down the heart and drops your blood pressure. You've got the opposite going on." Her petite hand rubs his shoulder, travels down to check his pulse, even if the monitor's rapid pitch is easily heard. "The key is in your blood tests, Mr. Stokes. We've ruled out a lot of things and it's just a matter of time."

It's what he was afraid of and he nods. "My heart. It's not workin' right."  
There's a staggered silence and then he hears his partner's voice cut through his growing fogginess.

"You have a heart of gold, Nick. It's just runnin' a little fast."

"You're being medicated and closely monitored, so don't worry." She squeezes his wrist gently. "I need to go consult with some colleagues. Your answers have given me a few ideas."

Warrick pulls up a chair alongside the narrow bed. He can feel the worry radiating from him. Nick's chest still feels trapped in a vice; metal press still squeezing. He swallows back a cry of frustration, stifles the need to ball his eyes out at the unfairness. He's not prone to pity parties, but right now he's has whipped as he's ever felt. "I---" there's not enough spit to wet his lips so he settles for clearing his throat.

"What? What do you need, bro?"

Nick still sees halos of green and yellow around his partner's face and closes his eyes against the anomaly. "They shocked me back, didn't they?"

When he doesn't hear Warrick try to deny it Nick lets the tears come.

* * *

Nick's tachycardia is under constant supervision. Not to mention the monitoring of numerous drugs, pharmaceutical levels needing measurement. Often. The ones keeping his heart rate and blood pressure under control, the ones ensuring that medication isn't harming any other vital organs in the process. It's a delicate balance.

After Nick coded before his eyes and was zapped back to life, after he'd called Grissom and taken care of business, he'd retreated to the men's room to have a small but quiet breakdown. The team was an hour away, running the investigation at Westner's secret bat cave on the outskirts of Vegas. Warrick had insisted that they all go back and look for things that could help Nick.

He averts his eyes as the nurse checks the output of a tube Warrick's glad Nick knows nothing about. The silver-haired caregiver checks every freakin' machine, every damn tube and line. The woman's boney fingers are a flurry of activity; pulling, pinching, draining, scribbling down things in a chart. Warrick grimaces as Nick tries his best to bury his head into the thin cotton of his pillow. He's about to grab her, toss her out - just get her away from his partner – when, mercifully, she's done and waddles out on her own. The moment she's gone Warrick pushes down the bedrail and squats down to Nick's eye level.

Warrick can't stand the awful beeping sound beside his ear. The little monitor flashes 151, a number still too high, but not as crazy as 220 when Nick's heart gave out. He knows that the dosage of drugs has been increased twice to just keep it from jumping up. Nick hasn't said a word since he acknowledged he'd been dead on that table for the longest three minutes of Warrick's life. His partner's face is red from all he's trying to hide, hold back, but the shade is a hell of a lot better than the sickly pale ashen one lately.

Men are not supposed to show weakness or express fear outwardly. It's a bunch of bull, but one of those unspoken rules that society accepts and encourages; tough guys don't cry. They don't fret or worry. They hold it all in, deal with it silently or not at all. Nick's built that way, raised that way on that weird Texas water; wealth spring for orneriness and stubborn behavior.

Warrick is one of those guys, too, usually. You can count on him when the chips are down, as a source of support in hopeless situations. But crisis exposes all the measurements of a man, and right now Warrick is down to his most basic components. And the manual for masochism doesn't include watching your best friend die in front of you.

Warrick's eyes travel over the countless wires snaking out the front of Nick's open gown. They must be pulling on his skin with Nick lying on his side like that. Then there are the oxygen tubes, pulse-meter, catheter, the IV lines. So much going on he can't take it all in.

"Sorry, Rick."

His buddy's voice startles him.

" Nothin' to apologize for," he whispers over the beeping.

Warrick stares at his friend's struggling body, can hear the fear in his voice. He throws out the book on manliness and wraps one arm around Nick's shaky shoulders and pulls him closer.

"I didn't mean to freak out."

Warrick's gives his buddy a clumsy hug and laughs. "You didn't freak out, man. That's just called being human. No one's gonna know and, damn it, Nick, you've earned the right to be a just a little scared. But that all it is, just nerves. You're gonna to be fine. Just fine."

"You're hugging me."

"Yeah."

"Means you're freaked out, too."

"No, means one of us has to be the voice of reason for once."

"And that's you."

Warrick can feel the grin tug at corners of his mouth. "I'm always cool under pressure, so of course."

"Hope there's enough of that Brown supply of suave for the both of us."

Nick's fragile mask of humor betrays him when he can't suppress a tremor. He groans and Warrick let's him go, but doesn't move away from the bed.

"You okay?"

Nick laughs. "Yeah…sure," and his body stiffens.

"Want me to get the nurse?" he asks, rising.

"No!"

Warrick stops, crouches back down.

"Don't…don't leave."

"Not goin' anywhere." Warrick licks his lips not sure what to say. He's going crazy, not being able to do anything. He stares at the heart monitor; its numbers climbing just a little higher: 155 now.

Nick's eyes are closed as if trying by sheer force of will to impose calm. It's a struggle and he's breathing through his mouth again, hand fisting the bed sheet.

"Keep talking to me, buddy."

Nick doesn't open his eyes. "Afraid I'll stop?"

Damn, it's like his partner can read his mind, but then that's why they work together so well.

"'Cause I am."

"Shut the fuck up!" Warrick growls.

Nick curls into a tighter ball, all color draining from his face. "Make…up…your…mind," he gasps through waves of pain.

Warrick needs to grab the doctor but he doesn't want to leave. He looks for the call button and, damn it, shouldn't someone notice that little red number is flashing 158? Nick's in the CCU, for crying out loud.

"I don't wanna die." Nick is staring at him, face drawn in pain, hand grabbing at the area around his heart. "Fought too many things…to just…go out…like this."

Nick's going to leave gashes if he digs at his flesh any more and Warrick pulls his fingers away, uncurls them one by one. "Just try to relax."

"Want these damn things off me," he says, yanking back his hand and fiddling with the electrodes over his chest.

"Leave em' alone, man. Try to concentrate on something besides the anxiety. That's all it is."

"Feels like…a freakin' horse…kicking his way outta me." Nick's beginning to get breathless.

"Sounds like you know what that feels like," Warrick says as calmly as possible, eyes searching for some kind of help.

Nick doesn't answer. He's trying to reign in his panting and squeezes shut his eyes again, sweat dotting his brow. "Still don't get the transference thing."

Leave it to Nick to think about his own case. Warrick smiles. Cold hard facts are what Nick is about in serious situations. "He said it was a trans-dermal reaction."

"What uses…that mode of delivery?"

Warrick hadn't thought about it, been too busy worrying to give it a second's worth of time. "I dunno, heat patches, like Icy Hot."

Nick rubs his eyes. "Nicotine patches."

Both light bulbs go off at once. "He used to do stuff for the tobacco industry, with all of his research he might have used the same technique, put in the chemical that allowed it to be soaked though your skin."

Nick's eyes are bright when they meet Warrick's. "What else did he study?"

"Dude was into everything from drugs for organ transplants to some shady government-type stuff."

"Prob'ly cooked some mix of somethin'." Nick trails off.

"Enough of this," says Warrick, but he's stopped before he can even turn. The ER physician is back.

"I think we might have found our culprit." She has a little group of white coats behind her, each gawking at the rare case study. "Based on Mr. Stokes' EEG and numerous test results, the closest things we can approximate is a large level of digoxin."

Warrick's brain rock-tumbles word. "Digitalis?"

"Right. It's a very strange form of cyclosporine. We're treating the tachycardia with Lidocane and we're going to be aggressive with his magnesium levels. We'll start pushing digibind to treat the high concentration of digoxin."

"Did you pinpoint which kind?" one of the residents inquires.

Warrick watches as a nurse injects more drugs into Nick's IV.

"What about a pacemaker?" another doc-in-training asks.

Nick looks wide-eyed at the senior physician.

She shakes her head reassuringly. "You're BP and pulse are high, but if you respond well to the treatment then I'm going to rule out a pacemaker. We'll see how things go; start checking in digoxin levels in about two hours."

"You sure about this? After everything else?" Warrick doesn't want second guesses, he's had enough of this ride.

"Mr. Stokes was kind enough to share his vision problems. Green and yellow halos are a significant symptom of such an overdose. The belly pain and arrhythmia made sense when we were able to test for a specific toxin."

"He's gonna be all right?" Warrick holds on, waits for a chance for his own heart to slow down.

The physician pauses, no doubt unwilling to make such guarantees. "I think after a few days of treatment, and if tests show no permanent damage from anything, yes."

"That mean all this poundin' is gonna stop?" Nick's accent is heavy, the twang much deeper.

"You should be feeling better very soon. Once the digibind begins to flush all the high levels out of your system, the pain in your stomach should decrease. The other medications are going to help with the hypertension."

Warrick glances at the heart monitor, the beeping somehow less annoying and shrill when the numbers are dropping. Already down to 149. "Thanks, doc."

Time is no longer marked in minutes as Warrick keeps watch over his partner from the plastic chair by his bed. Its passage is told in nurses at regular intervals, the scribbles they put down in Nick's chart. More blood donations, vitals checks, pen lights, other mildly disruptive things. His partner sleeps through most of it, complaining very little to the staff, but whining to Rick once they've left the room.

Warrick doesn't mind. He's happy just to sit there; bored, counting the tiles and the slow, even breathing from the bed next to him. The red numbers are acceptable, hovering around 110. Warrick doesn't even look at his watch much.

The rest of the team is on its way, now that Nick is mostly out of danger and not depending on them finding some crazy, hidden clue. Westner was nowhere to be found. There's an APB, but Warrick figures the bastard's out of the country by now, just like he'd said he'd be.

"Warrick."

Nick's voice is soft but lacks the tension from earlier.

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

He knows there's more in that tiny word; a whole heaping of gratitude that won't ever be mentioned. The manual on proper behavior in this situation is pulled out again, opened, being followed by both men.

"Go to sleep, bro."

"Who's really goin' to clean out your truck?"

Warrick smiles. "I'll get Sanders to do it."

Nick chuckles and settles back into the bed, drifting off.

Warrick glances at his watch and realizes this whole thing started just over four hours ago. He can watch one of those 'Lord of the Rings' movies, enjoy a game of football on TV, drive to go see his buddy Beth at her cabin in that time. He stretches out his lanky legs, rests his head along the wall behind him. He thinks he'll spend the next four right here.

* * *

Prompts:  
Non-stop angst/ lots of H/C  
Poison  
Nick and Warrick friendship 


End file.
